The Perfect Vagina
While working as a general practitioner, I had a patient who would not stop complaining about her flaps—vaginal flaps, that is, or labia minora, to be precise. Miss Vagina Whiner first came to me saying she had lost all pleasure from sexual intercourse because she was so embarrassed by her saggy lips, which drooped about her clitoris like the slobbery chops of an overbred dog. I found it curious she had shaved prior to her appointment and wondered if this was to highlight the outlandish size of her flaps.
Unfortunately, vaginal aesthetics—much like penis size—is an area where the National Health Service of the UK generally will not intervene. Ugly people are not referred for a face-transplant, and the same applies to bad genital luck. I apologized, saying that there was nothing I could do and that it was an area for a private cosmetic surgeon. I also reassured her that enlarged labia are perfectly normal and common among women, especially after popping out a few babies.
But she was persistent in her taxpayer’s right to free medical attention and returned some weeks later demanding I see her. I again reiterated—declining to take a second look—that there was nothing I could do. The only time the NHS will refer a patient for cosmetic surgery is if the problem is causing pain—the genitals can rub uncomfortably against clothes or during sex—or if the psychological effect is severe. She paused before saying, “If you won’t help me, I’ll just have to do it myself. How do I best cut them off?” Er, you’re really best not to, I don’t care how steady your hand is, chopping bits of your vagina off with scissors in the shower is a bad idea.
How to Drink Until Your Ass Bleeds
Hey, you rapidly decaying protoplasmic sacks of calcium and shit, my name is Dr Mona Moore. Obviously, that is not my real name, but I am a real doctor. Don’t feel bad for me, though, because it means I will always have a job, an apartment ten times bigger than yours, and the right to tell you what to do simply because I will always know better. Enjoy my column!
BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - HOW TO DRINK YOURSELF TO A BLEEDING ARSE
I had my worst experience in the ER ever this week. I had to extract wads of bloody tissue from a homeless man’s anus after he plugged it to stop himself shitting on the streets. Every few minutes I made an excuse such as—I need more gloves—and ran to wretch with a gasp of fresh air.
I can smell true alcoholics before I see them. I’m not talking about your amateur weekend binge-drinkers; tequila-in-the eye, snorting-vodka, the ‘striving for oblivion’ contingent, or the middle-aged women who down three bottles of red wine a night after they put their kids to bed because they have no joy in their lives. This is the “I want to pickle my brain, bleed from my ass and lose any sense of coherent reality forever” group. They’re the really stinky fuckers. Like ass-wad man.
He drank so much he had scoured the inside of his stomach raw with ulcers, which were bleeding out so quickly it ran straight through the 6.5m of his gut, mixed with shit and leaked all over the street. His brain was so marinated in sweet dark rum that he was blissfully unaware of his own wretchedness. To be fair to him, he was a little embarrassed, which is why he had shoved toilet paper up his arse—a gesture of politeness not to leak in public.